


A Little Hope

by AetosForeas



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Assassin's Creed Odyssey
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 04:33:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20203783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AetosForeas/pseuds/AetosForeas
Summary: 404 BC. Sisa, Egypt. A misthios on a job spots the Order of the Ancients and stumbles into a reunion.





	A Little Hope

That year, she discovered she could still feel.

She had never been to Egypt before, but like many Greeks she had heard much of it. Her trip has been busy, with much travel between Sisa, Memphis and Heliopolis, and it all made her remember Herodotus and his stories. He’d loved to talk about it – he’d been there, and it was Barnabas who had often coaxed him to tell a story about the place, about the people who Herodotus called one of the oldest in the world.

“But not the oldest.” He shook his head. “At least, not according to the stories they themselves tell of their own Pharoahs. For it was Psammetichus who undertook the study of the antiquity of his people, and determined through a study of the speech of an untutored child, that the Phrygians were indeed older than the Egyptian people.”

“You’re mad.” Kassandra remembered replying. “What would that prove? Babies say gibberish. Alexios used to make noises that sounded like a dog chewing on a bone, it didn’t mean that he’s a wolf.”

“Ah, but some say there are wolves in your family tree, Eagle Bearer.” He’d smile that gentle, amused smile of his, the one that made you want to tolerate whatever he was saying. “And besides, I make no claim of its accuracy, merely that it is what the priests at Heliopolis say.”

The streets of Sais were crowded. During the day, it was a hot, dry place – hotter by far than even the scrublands of Crete, which she’d visited many times. Little Egypt had prepared her but little for Sais, where the Egyptians thronged, and her rusty Persian and even rustier Egyptian would have been useless but for the Staff of Hermes. With it, however, she had no difficulties – even hidden in her _exomis_ it was as if she could hear the people speaking Greek to her, and she always knew the right words in either of the native tongues.

Unseen by the guards on the street, she prowled the rooftops of Sais, following him.

He was skilled, very skilled – perhaps more skilled than her, as he had been fifteen years earlier when she’d known him. But age had taken a heavy toll on him, as it does all men, while she would never know its touch. Her blood and the staff would leave her, like a rock that weathers all things while the river flows around it, and it was a bitter thing to her at times. But now, it meant she could follow him, from roof to roof and down darkened streets, and he did not see her.

Ikaros helped, of course. She had no idea what she would have done without him. Even with his flying slower and his need for rests greater, he was still her eyes in the sky and she felt dread every time she noted a feather lost or a stiff wing. He still loved to be preened, though, and would spend an hour or two just resting on her, his head brushing against hers. If he wasn’t a bird she would have said he was reassuring her.

But of course that was silly.

Still, she treasured him, and at the moment he was gliding over the world. The temple of Neith, the goddess of the place, dominated the outskirts – some considered Neith to be Athena, or at least a sister-goddess, while Herodotus had said to her that he and Sokrates had argued over that. This did not surprise her, for if there was anything Sokrates was good at, it was arguing.

His hood was pulled up, but she didn’t need to see his face. His wrist confirmed his identity for her. And so she followed, keeping to the darkest patches of shadow, and every so often thanked Selene for her absence from the night sky. Ikaros was silent above, and he indicated a shadow to her, a skulker who was quite capable but not in the older man’s league, easy to keep track of. She made a note of him.

After an hour, he turned down another blind alley, and she was about to have to school herself in patience again when it finally happened. She hadn’t come to Sais looking for him – indeed, until she’d seen a glimpse of him at the docks, buying pomegranates of all things, she had not known he was there, or indeed anywhere. He had done what he had told her and vanished, leaving no trace.

She’d been so shocked to see him that she nearly revealed herself, but then she’d seen _them_. Just a trace of them, mind, but their bearing clashed with the locals, it reeked of arrogance. Of the unconscious weight of rulership, how it propelled the step and drove one’s spine to lengthen. These were men who had never learned to hunch, to diminish themselves – they were men who ruled, and in Egypt the rulers were Persians. Had been since Amasis II, born right there in Sais, had died more than a century before.

She’d ducked out of sight and watched them, and saw them following him.

That was all it took to change everything – the reason for her trip, the client she left waiting, all fell away into unimportance. Instead, she followed. And he had been every bit the royal pain in the ass she’d expected, taking the better part of the day and much of the night looping around the city. At first, she thought he might know she was following him, but then she realized it was the others he was aware of, and was trying to shake. If he knew she was there, his adjustments weren’t enough to lose her.

They had been enough to lose the original Persians, but not _these_ three, black clad stalkers in cloth and leather with face masks that had burned their way into her memory. Pactyas had worn a similar mask. The three of them dropped around him, curving swords and daggers in their hands. She wondered at those swords – she’d fought enough Persians by now to know that most preferred a straight, double edged blade not dissimilar to the _xiphos_.

“Artabanus.” One of the three hissed it. “You thought to escape us.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he’d drawn a sword, and the smaller punch-dagger blade on his wrist popped into view. Seeing that, she fought to keep from falling back into memory.

He ran in on the first and she allowed herself to keep concealed and watch. If he could take them, there would be no reason to reveal herself. The first exchange, she almost dared to hope that he could kill all three of them, but it was clear enough. He was still skilled, still strong, but not as strong as he’d been when she’d known him, and even then he’d been on the decline – hadn’t she had to step in and save him from Amorges’ Immortals? Hadn’t she had to leave Natakas and Elpidios on the beach?

_Had I not…_

An exchange of blows, and the older man pulled back, his arm bleeding from a hit. It was the one with the punch dagger blade attached, now almost unusable. She scowled. _How many times did I show him why that thing is a fool’s affectation, it can barely parry like that, and yet… _She watched the three advance, and then the thing she’d been waiting for happened.

The skulker Ikaros had seen leapt from a rooftop and landed before the older man, brandishing two daggers. They looked local made to her, not that she was an expert in Egyptian bladecraft. He was tall, whipcord thin, with a shock of brown hair falling out around his face under the hood he wore. His clothes were linen, lighter than the older man’s, but not dissimilar from them.

“No!” Artabanus spoke, and she fought the memory. For a little over a year she’d considered the house in Achaea her home, heard that voice regularly. Memories she’d fought to rip out of her, so that she could sleep, and eat, and go on living despite the wound that she’d never been able to heal from. She watched, transfixed, as the younger man parried and struck with those daggers. Saw him successfully turn two strikes, keeping them away from their original quarry.

The third was about to throw his dagger when Ikaros swooped down and slashed his talons across the face, and he tried to defend himself when Kassandra dropped on top of him and drove a broad, flat spearhead into his spine. The Staff of Hermes could become any weapon she chose, and although the original was in a grave on Samos, she often chose to recreate the broken spear her grandfather had left behind for her.

_Because it’s not strapped to my damn wrist and I can use it to parry!_

Her target died before he even knew she was there and she pulled the blade free, her _kopis_ in her other hand, and strode forward. Her sandals made little sound but the two who were fighting the thin boy still heard her, and one whirled a sword strike that she knocked away without even slowing, then drove her sword into his belly, twisting it as she did. Fury crawled up her spine and she tore the blade sideways, cutting him nearly in half.

This left one. The boy, for a boy he was, had taken in the situation quickly and turned his attention to his grandfather. She ached, feeling torn apart herself, but turned all of that anger and that pain on the last of the Order’s men, who lashed out at her several times. Each strike would have killed her, had they reached her.

Instead, she lazily knocked each away. Made sure he could see her, that he knew how little effort it cost her to parry his strikes. She knew how proud the Order were, saviors of Persia, hunters of Tainted Ones. She knew how hard they trained, how much they believed themselves chosen. She wanted him to see what a real Tainted One was, not a child who had no idea what she was, not a young man who’d barely started to understand what he could do.

She reached out and scored across his sword arm, just as he had Artabanus, and used the spear in her off hand to impale his dagger arm, causing him to drop it and hiss. She was impressed at his quiet. Most would have screamed at that. Her foot came up and she slammed a kick into his chest, sending him flying back into the wall. The crunch of bone told her something broke in the impact, but she made sure he wasn’t getting up before she turned back to the others.

“Who are you?” The boy said, and her heart broke. He looked so much like her brother – the same strong jaw, the cheekbones. _Of course he looks like Alexios, Alexios looks like you. _There were traces of Natakas there, too, the cast of his eyes, the tone of his skin. His hair, though, it was the same unruly brown mess that she fought with every morning to wrangle into a side braid, but loose on him, unbound. The Persian style. She took a deep breath, but before she could find words he shook his head. “No time. Grandfather is badly wounded, and if you were Order… well.”

“I am far from that.” She finally managed to speak. She took a step closer, looked down at Artabanus’ face. He was unconscious. The bleeding from his arm was worse than she’d expected. “You need to bind that wound.”

She could see him panic and see him fight through it, nod, and turn to the downed men, sliding strips of cloth to use. She kneeled over her… father in law? She’d never actually married Natakas, and wasn’t sure what you’d call their relationship. Less than lovers, more than friends. That was fifteen years in the past. Right now, he was an old man bleeding out in an alley. She ripped open the sleeve of his tunic, sucked in air at the sight of his arm. It was bad, the gash livid and it smelled wrong to her.

The boy came back with his improvised bandages, and she walked over to the one who’d slammed back into the wall, stopping to pick up the dagger he’d dropped. There was a film of some kind on the blade. She decided to keep it, searched his body for a scabbard and found it. The smell from it confirmed her suspicion, and she slid the dagger home and placed it into her belt.

She watched his chest rise and fall, breathing shallow. He’d seen her. More importantly, he’d seen the boy. She considered the value of what he might tell her versus the cost if he escaped and told someone else what he’d seen.

“Please.” The boy spoke again, his accent unfamiliar to her. He was speaking Persian, but not the way a native would, and she wondered if he’d grown up in Sais. “I can’t carry him and he won’t wake up.”

“One moment.” She slashed out with the spear, cutting the last killer’s throat cleanly. He’d bleed to death, and no one would know what he’d seen. Turning, she saw a flicker of shock across the boy’s face. Apparently, whatever Artabanus had been teaching him, the idea of cold bloodly slicing a man’s throat hadn’t made it all the way through yet. She wasn’t sure if she should be glad or irritated.

The boy was tall, almost her height, but skinny. He reminded her of the way she’d been on Kephallonia, before puberty had finished with her and she’d fleshed out. She walked over and listened to Artabanus’ labored breathing. Without knowing what was on the dagger, she didn’t have a lot of options.

“Do you have a place we can take him?”

“Yes.” The boy licked his lips. “But how do I know I can trust you?”

Again a spasm of pain, that he of all people should ask her this… but he didn’t know her. Why _should_ he trust her, when the Order dogged his steps and likely had all of his life?

“If I wanted Artabanus or you dead, all I had to do was wait two minutes. Or just kill you both now.” She looked him in the eyes. She’d long fallen out of the habit of praying – it was hard to do when you’d actually been to the Underworld, had seen the impossible, had watched Poseidon _die_ – but she did it now. _Please. If you exist, if you ever did, if you still do – you founded our line. From you came Perseus, and Herakles, and from them all my family, and he comes from you, too. Please._

He looked back down at his grandfather’s face, and then back up to hers.

She managed not to lose control of herself when he nodded. She felt the relief, but didn’t let it overwhelm her. Instead, she simply lifted Artabanus’ unconscious body like a small child.

“This way.” The boy nodded.

They spent several minutes making sure no one else was following them, taking a circuitous route across the rooftops. The boy was fast, agile – with Artabanus unconscious in her arms, she almost had to work to keep up with him. Almost. Not bad for a fourteen year old.

The lack of the moon meant that she only had the stars to light her way, but they’d always been enough. The boy led her deeper into the city, further away from the docks and the Temple of Neith, where the buildings began to crowd against one another. Sais was an old city – Herodotus told her it had been constructed by Athenians before the fall of Atlantis, and while she doubted that very much (having seen Atlantis, she knew it was far, far older than any city of men) she could appreciate that these streets had been laid out well before Troy fell, before Perseus had even been born.

The rooms the boy brought her to were hardly luxurious, but they were clean and there was enough space for two to live frugally. He brought her to a bed and she placed the unconscious man on it.

“Why hasn’t he woken?”

“He’s been poisoned.”

“How do you know?” His eyes were wide, and she could tell he was controlling himself with an effort. She was impressed. At his age, she’d still been so angry – angry at Nikolaos, at the world, at Kephallonia for existing and herself for being there. She’d thought more with her fists and her spear back then.

_I took my first real job besides running Markos’ errands when I was twelve._ She recalled that, how she’d killed her first man that year. Shook her head to clear it.

“Here.” She pulled the dagger and sheath out of her belt. “I took this from one of them. Smell it.”

He did so, wrinkling his nose.

“What _is_ that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t use poison much. But whatever it is, it’s in him, and we need to know what will counteract it, quickly.” Artabanus’ looked sallow, his skin pallid, and he had begun to sweat profusely. “You know the area better than I do. Is there a doctor nearby? Or a priest? Someone you trust?”

He’d pulled back his hood and was running his hand through his hair, pacing. Finally he straightened.

“Old Maya. She’s… odd. But she doesn’t love the Persians and she serves as a midwife or when someone is wounded. I can get her.” He looked down at his grandfather and for a moment lost the mastery of himself, fear written on his face in broad strokes. “Can I trust you?”

“I’ll watch him until you come back.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “There’s not much time.”

To his credit, the boy didn’t waste any of it, nodding and slipping out of the window. This left her alone with Artabanus. It was still strange to her to think of him by that name – he’d been Darius to her, before and during her time with Natakas. But Darius was the name of the King of Kings, the Great King of Persia who sat on the throne because the Order put him there, and her original reason for coming to Sais. The scroll back on the _Adrestia_, the one she’d memorized. She was there as a _misthios_, and if her mission caused the Order consternation… well. That was all to the good, but it had nothing to do with Artabanus, or his grandson.

He didn’t stir or wake, his breathing labored, the sweating soaking through his clothes. She decided to strip him down because she didn’t think it was good for him to lay there in them, did so briskly. Tried not to remember Natakas, the resemblance between them. She managed to get him as comfortable as she knew how by the time the boy returned, this time using the door. In his wake trailed a woman who made Artabanus look young, long silver-grey hair nearly to the ground and a face and hands creased by years and life’s demands.

_I will never look like this._ It hit her more than she would have expected.

She stepped aside without speaking and let the boy bring the woman to his grandfather.

“Has he woken at all?”

“Not since…” The boy looked to Kassandra. “Did he while I was gone?”

“No.”

“Not for an hour, then.” He turned his attention back to Maya, showed her the knife. “We think it’s poison.”

She smelled the blade, her nose wrinkling much as his had.

“Nephthy’s Tears. It’s from a plant, grows wild in many places.”

“How do you…”

“I use it. It’s not _just_ a poison. Few things are.” She dropped her head onto his chest. “Heart is racing. That’s not good.”

“Can you help him?”

“I can treat the worst of it.” Kassandra watched the old woman, the way she moved around the bed. She was absolutely nothing like Hippokrates had been, but the manner in which she took over the room, ordered the two of them about, redressed the wound and administered a horrible smelling brew she made herself at the cooking fire all felt familiar to Kassandra.

The boy watched it all with interest and a touch of suspicion.

“You needn’t stare at me, boy. He’s already poisoned.” She clucked her tongue at him. “He will sweat more, which will purge him, and his heart and breathing should calm down. Wake sure he eats and gets water when he wakes. He’s lost too much blood. Especially at his age.”

After the old woman left, Kassandra found herself alone with the boy and his grandfather, and her thoughts of course went back to that little house above Dyme. Lost in them, she barely noticed the boy staring at her. His voice surprised her.

“You’re a Greek.”

“So I am.” She nodded.

“I’m told I’m part Greek.” He approached her and she felt the wholly irrational urge to run away, at war with the wholly irrational urge to grab hold of him. “My name is Elpidios. Who are you? Why did you help us? You clearly have no love for the Order, but I’ve never seen anyone fight like you do.”

“Seen a lot of people fighting?”

“When people want to kill you, you either fight or you run.” He shrugged. “I prefer to run, but sometimes you can’t.”

“A friend of mine likes to call me Diotima. It’s less dangerous for you to call me that.” She stretched, the events of the night coming upon her now that the adrenaline was dying down. “The Order and I have never had much love for one another.”

Elpidios didn’t say anything in response, instead just looking at her. It reminded her of how Natakas could just wait until she decided to speak, and wondered at it. _Is it so surprising that Artabanus would raise your son the same way he raised his father_? She decided to keep her tongue, which was a kind of torture at that moment, and waited. Finally the boy broke first.

“You knew my grandfather. I could see it, when you saw him.”

“Yes, I did. And your father, for that matter.” That had the reaction she expected, as the boy’s face grew animated at that, his posture losing some of its guard.

“You did? Grandfather… it hurts him to talk about my father. Did you know him well?”

“Very well. Only for a short time, but…” She decided to sit, folding her legs under herself, and Elpidios followed suit. They were in the room that led outside, leaving Artabanus the bed to sleep off his poisoning. It felt like an old injury to see Elpidios sitting cross-legged against the opposite wall as the sun slowly came up, the sky lightening in the window behind him. “He was a good man. Quick on his feet. A good shot with a bow, kind. He had a devastating smile. He made friends easily, always wanted to help if he could.”

“I don’t remember. Grandfather says I was too young.”

“He adored you.” She felt like she shouldn’t say too much, that it was too risky, but there he was and he wanted to know and it was such a small thing. The only thing she could give him. “You were everything… when you were born, he cut himself cutting the cord. Called it the best scar he ever had. You were the sun in the sky to him, he used to talk about taking you boar hunting when you got older.”

“He hunted boars?”

“When they were available.” She smiled. “They were quite common around Dyme. That was where you were born, where he lived with you.”

“And…” Elpidios looked younger by the second as she spoke. The guard, the reserve he’d had in the alleyway had fallen entirely away. “My mother. Did you know her?”

“What has Artabanus told you about her?”

“Just that she loved me and that the Order knew where she was, so she had to let him take me. That it wasn’t safe.” She fought back a wince, the rebuke from Artabanus stinging even second hand. But he was lying abed, and the Order had found him anyway without anything to do with her, and Elpidios’ eyes were on her. “I wonder about her often.”

“Well, I did know her.” She looked down at her hands. “She came from Sparta. Do you know where that is?”

“Only a little.” His voice was clear, and much like his father’s had been. She didn’t dare to look back up and see his face, to try and see what he was thinking. “It’s not… day to day, keeping out of sight. We came to Sisa from Memphis, and before that… always the Order. Always keeping out of sight. I’ve read a little. About how Greece beat the Persians.”

“Oh?”

“To drive off the Persians… it sounds like a dream.” She looked up and blessed all the gods she could think of because he wasn’t looking right at her, but over her, his eyes unfocused. “Egypt is on the cusp. Here in Sais, Amenirdisu has been fighting the Persians for years. Some say he’s called for outside help to finally push them back.”

“It’s a good time for it, if he has.” Kassandra fought to keep her voice in check. “Darius has many problems. His satraps are insubordinate, his own sons wants to depose him. He is sick and exhausted. If Amenirdisu is smart, he’ll make his move soon.”

“Is it true? That the Greeks drove the Persians away?”

“It is.” She nodded. “Thanks to men like Themistocles and Leonidas. Do you know that name? Leonidas?”

“Sometimes grandfather calls me that.”

“Does he?” That made her smile. “He did when you were a baby, too. Leonidas of Sparta was your great-grandather, on your _mater’s_ side. He died keeping the Persians at bay. He defied many, even his own death, to keep them out of Hellas.”

“What was she like?”

“I’m not the best person to ask. We had our differences.” She realized this wouldn’t be enough for him, could see it in the way his eyes narrowed. “But I can tell you this. Of all the world, and of everything in it, your _mater_ loved you most of all. More than herself, more than Greece, more than anything and everything. She made the wrong decisions, but every single one of them was because she loved you, and that was the most important thing in the world to her. She would have done anything for you.”

“Do you know…” He dropped his head and his voice quivered and she wanted, so so badly she wanted to stand up. To hold him, like she hadn’t held him since that day in Messenia, the day she’d put him in Artabanus’ arms and watched as the small boat got smaller and smaller until she couldn’t see it any more. “Is she alive? Could you… If I gave you a letter, could you give it to her?”

“That might not be wise. I doubt Artabanus would approve.”

“No. He wouldn’t. He would say it isn’t safe. He _always says that!” _The anger was sudden and palpable and it made her smile because for the first time he looked like _her_, sounded like her, and in her there was this spreading warmth where her heart cracked open. _Oh my little one, my baby eagle, the best part of me_. “What good is life when you never get to live it? We hide and we run while Egypt bleeds, the Persians step on our throats, the Order never leaves us be. How can we make a home here, or anywhere, if we always have to run? And… I want to know where I come from, I want to… please. If she’s alive, if you know her, I would give you anything to…”

“I will tell her whatever you want, but no letter.” She held up a hand. “She would not keep it. It would be too risky, if the Order ever managed to find her and kill her it might lead them to you. She would never risk that. But I know she would welcome any news of you. She has never forgotten you.”

“No?”

“I promise you, you are in her thoughts every day.” She smiled. “Stubborn idiot that she is.”

“Don’t.” There was a ghost of a smile on his face. “She is my mother.”

“As you say.”

“Tell her I wish I knew her. I know but little. That she gave me up to keep me safe. Tell her I am, at least as safe as anyone can be. That I think of her.”

“I will do that for you.” She finally made herself stand. “Will you be all right, with him?”

“If he recovers. Yes. We always have been. The Order are getting desperate, with Amenirdisu evading their best killers. How they found _us_ I don’t know.”

“Tell your grandfather to stop buying pomegranates.”

“Ah. That… he has a taste for them. I wasn’t aware he was indulging it.” He shook his head.

“We all have our weaknesses.” She took a breath, looked at him one last time. “I am afraid I have to leave. I have my own business here in Sais. Please, try and stay out of sight for the next month or two. Trust me. By then, who knows, the Order will likely have much bigger problems than the two of you.”

He inclined his head, and she could almost feel the curiosity here – the many, many questions he wanted to ask, but didn’t. She lingered over his face, over the deep set golden-brown of his eyes. He’d gotten the best of both of them in that face, he’d break hearts with it. She wondered if he already had, but there was no way to ask.

“Goodbye and thank you, Diotima. Without your help…”

“Always.” She turned so he didn’t see her eyes clench up, stepped to the window. The sun was finally there, rising anove the alleys. “Take care, Elpidios.”

She scrambled up the wall and up onto the rooftop and then began making her way back towards the docks, making sure to take her time. To stop often, and change direction. No one was following her, and Ikaros flying overhead made sure of that. After an hour, she made her way out of the city proper.

There was a small building near the edge of Sisa proper, with several camels and two horses tethered. Water and feed were provided them by the hands of a young girl, no more than ten, who did not seem surprised when a Greek woman appeared out of the dust and walked inside.

Several armed men immediately rose, spears pointed her way. Two of them had bows. One of them, the only one not pointing a weapon at her, held out a hand and the rest lowered their arms but did not move back.

“You’re late.”

“The Order is in Sisa.” She met his gaze. “I had to make sure they were dead and that I wasn’t followed.”

“Already?” He shook his head. “Still, they’re too late. If you accomplished your mission…”

“You’ll have your aid from Memphis and Heliopolis.” She handed him a bag, and he opened it. Inside, the scroll and a golden ring shaped like a falcoln in flight. “You are acknowledged as Pharoah, heir to Inaros. Twelve hundred men are on their way to join you here. The Persians do not know they’re coming.”

“Excellent.” Amenirdisu had a brilliant smile. “Then all we need to do now is meet them on the field. What about…”

“Three hundred Greeks, from Crete and the Peloponnese.” She nodded. “Your gold was spent well. They should be here within the week.”

The spearmen finally relaxed fully, and Amenirdisu stepped forward, clasping Kassandra’s hand in his own.

“Someone bring our _misthios_ a drink. She’s just driven Persia out of Egypt!”

“Not just yet.” She replied. “But we will.”

_This I can do for you, little hope. I can give you time, a life away from the Order._ She accepted the drink, a frothy Egyptian beer she wasn’t overly fond of. But she drank it, bitter though it was.

**Author's Note:**

> Because I wanted to write at least one story where nobody Kassandra cares about dies, and also, because I'm me and the stories all end up being at least a little sad.


End file.
